


The Runaway Scone

by luftnarp-writing (secretsofluftnarp)



Series: Crowley, Aziraphale, and the Doctor [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s02e09 The Satan Pit, i'm just here for the whimsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22088410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsofluftnarp/pseuds/luftnarp-writing
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley meet the Tenth Doctor.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Crowley, Aziraphale, and the Doctor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715599
Comments: 36
Kudos: 226





	The Runaway Scone

**Six Months Post-Notpocalypse**   
  
Aziraphale had been enjoying an afternoon meal (alone, in a sunny little cafe, because, well, he had the time, nowadays), when his scone hopped up on pointy little legs, made a chittering sound, and ran down the tablecloth toward the floor.

"You're a scone!" Aziraphale whispered sharply in its general direction. "You're not  _ supposed _ to go skittering off!"

Being fairly sure that the human kitchen staff had little to do with it, and a little afraid that it was some kind of supernatural entity that he was somehow responsible for, Aziraphale hurried after it. 

The scone took off out the door of the cafe, and down the street. It paused, tapped timidly at the side of a brick building, and slowly began to climb. Aziraphale flattened himself against an adjacent wall, supposing he was less likely to be noticed by a sentient scone by doing so. The scone skittered onto a window ledge, and hesitated.

A hand popped out of the open window, brandishing -- was that a laser pen? it was  _ loud _ , for a laser pen -- an instrument of some kind, beaming blue light onto the runaway pastry. Its limp, metallic legs immobilized, and collapsed, tumbling off the ledge. A second hand popped out of the window and caught it in midair, followed by elbows, head, and most of a blue-pinstripe-suit-clad torso. 

"Hello!" said the grinning man, half-hanging out the window. He held the scone-creature by the corner, offering it to Aziraphale. "This belong to you?"   
  
Aziraphale was sorry to have been spotted, but figured there was no way around it now. "No," he said. "I mean, yes. But only in that I purchased it. It ran away of its own accord."

"Aha!" said the man, who seemed delighted by this novel piece of information. "Were there any more of them?"   
  
"Not that I could see," Aziraphale said. There was something familiar about the man that Aziraphale couldn't quite place. He definitely wasn't angelic, but he radiated enthusiasm and -- was that trust? Who radiated trust? 

Aziraphale also noticed that he was, in Aziraphale's opinion,  _ very _ pretty. Aziraphale shook himself, so as not to become distracted. 

"I suppose you didn't expect it to run off?"   
  
"I didn't," Aziraphale confirmed.    
  
Instead of walking around to the door, the man climbed inelegantly out of the window. He extended a hand mid-climb. "I'm the Doctor," he said, as if that explained anything.

"A.Z. Fell," said Aziraphale.   
  
"Mister Fell!" the Doctor said, dismounting from the window. "Oooh, that's fun to say.  _ Mister Fell _ . Mister Fell, would you mind pointing me to where you purchased our poor friend?"   
  
Aziraphale began to walk the Doctor back toward the cafe, but felt skittish himself. Something was definitely amiss. He needed to tell someone before anything else happened. 

"It's right over there," Aziraphale said, in his most helpful tone. "Terribly sorry, I must get back to work. Got a bookshop to run."    
  
"A bookshop!" the Doctor said, with the same level of delight he seemed to reserve for everything. But Aziraphale had already escaped around the corner, and, once out of sight, took off in flight.    
  


  
  
  
"Something's happened, Crowley," Aziraphale said, to a customer-free bookshop. It was closed for the day, and Aziraphale hadn't given any thought as to when it would open again. "I don't know what sort of thing -- not a heavenly or hellish thing, not an  _ apocalyptic _ thing, but definitely unusual."   
  
A grunt sounded from the back room. Crowley was lounging across multiple pieces of furniture -- legs over the side of an armchair, body on the couch, arms outstretched in different directions -- eyes closed and mouth slack. 

"How long have you been asleep?" Aziraphale asked.    
  
"Few days," Crowley mumbled, barely rousing. "Don't judge me, angel. Try it sometime."    
  
Aziraphale had tried it a number of times -- sleeping with Crowley after sleeping with Crowley, which he enjoyed very much, but more than a night's worth felt excessive. He had things to read, and calls to not answer. 

"I'm not judging you," Aziraphale said. "And you deserve the rest, darling. It's only that something's  _ happened _ \--"   
  
"Did wake up this afternoon though," Crowley said, scooting up so that he only took up one couch. "There was a noise outside like a car that wouldn't start was trying to --" he made a vague sawing notion with his hands. "Fuck a violin." 

Aziraphale couldn't fathom how the two were related. He told Crowley about the scone, and the over-enthusiastic man. 

"Definitely not demons," Crowley said, now in a waking slouch. "Demons don't use electronics. You know who uses electronics? Humans. Humans who slapped together computers in a garage.  _ Enthusiasts _ . Probably a local robot arms race to see whose little metal crawly things can run the fastest." 

"But there was something different," Aziraphale said. "He felt familiar."   
  
"You've met a lot of humans."   
  
"Not a customer," Aziraphale said. "And too pleasant to be angelic."    
  
There was a knock on the door. "We're closed!" Crowley shouted, even though that was Aziraphale's job; it was sweet that Crowley was taking on some of the shop duties.

"Scone man!" the Doctor called through the door. "Lovely place you have here, name out front and everything! Mind if I just ask you a few more questions?"   
  
Crowley groaned.    
  
"You could scare him," Aziraphale suggested, with a mischievous quirk to his lips. " _ We _ could scare him." 

Crowley smiled, lopsided, in the  _ I love you, you old bastard  _ way that he even said out loud, sometimes, nowadays. He put an arm on Aziraphale's back and ambled toward the door. 

"Hello!" said the Doctor.    
  
"The bleeding hell is this!" Crowley shouted, grabbing the Doctor by the shirt collar and throwing him inside. Crowley slammed the bookshop door with a handwave. He snapped his fingers in the Doctor's face. "Who are you?"   
  
"I'm very difficult to hypnotize, for starters," the Doctor said, cheerfully. "I'm the Doctor! Who are you?"

Crowley had largely avoided hand-to-hand fighting, over the years, strongly preferring sabotage and booby traps. But he had seen plenty of action movies, and believed that his own limbs were strong and heavy, and that his propensity for cheating gave him an advantage over the impossible stranger. 

Which is how he managed to pin the Doctor to a table ("Mind the books!" Aziraphale tutted), and, with a quick miracle, tie his hands behind him.

Aziraphale attempted not to feel jealous of the ties.

"Angel," Crowley said, holding the Doctor's head down against a lovely leatherbound volume on gardening, "you seem to have left out a few key details."   
  
Aziraphale observed the situation. He didn't want to say it, but now it was too obvious not to. "Well," he said primly, "now that you mention it, you have the same bum." 

"Same bum!" Crowley exclaimed. "You are so -- predictable! Same bum! He's running round here with my  _ teeth _ , and you're over here saying 'same bum'!"

Crowley pulled the Doctor to standing. "Wrong eyes, though. Better work on that." 

"You're dark," the Doctor said, screwing up his face in a confusion that was something like awe. "Where does all that darkness come from?"   
  
"Aziraphale!" Crowley cried in protest, as Aziraphale's hands appeared to fiddle near the Doctor's bum.   
  
"I was taking the laser pen!" Aziraphale protested, holding up the device the Doctor had attempted to fish out of his back pocket. "He was going to use it to escape!"    
  
In haste, Aziraphale tossed the device across the room. The Doctor groaned.    
  
Aziraphale pulled a chair up for the Doctor to sit in, so Crowley could play interrogator. The bubbling trust from earlier was gone, and there was something grand and powerful behind it.   
  
"Now tell me," Crowley said carefully. "Who are you?"   
  
The Doctor's face settled. "I have identification in my front right pocket." 

Crowley fished out the passport-sized piece, opened it, and read the Doctor's true name off the psychic paper. 

"WHAT," the Doctor said, leaping to his feet, expression as grandiose and dark as Crowley's, but with genuine fear behind it. "No,  _ you _ tell me who you are, you tell me  _ what _ you are, and you tell me how you did that. There's not a being in the known universe who ought to be able to do that."

"Aw," Crowley drawled. He waved the paper. "Well, this just tells me what I want to know, yeah? And I wanted to know your name."   
  
"Please," the Doctor said, "if you could keep it to yourself, I would greatly appreciate it."   
  
"Doesn't seem like human magic," Crowley said, flipping the paper back and forth.   
  
"Sufficiently advanced technology," the Doctor corrected.   
  
"Yeah," said Crowley. "Like I said. Magic." 

"You've both got extremely powerful psyches," the Doctor said. "Like there's a warm front coming off him," he said, nodding toward Aziraphale. "And a cold front coming off you, and together it's just this thunderstorm of psychic activity. It's a wonder you don't burn the place down."    
  
"We don't like to talk about that," Aziraphale said. 

"Look," Crowley said, pulling up a chair and sitting in it backwards, like they did in the movies. "Once in a while, my friend and I get threats, and we just need to make sure you aren't a threat."   
  
"Friend," Aziraphale repeated coldly.   
  
"Angel. We've been over this. Saying 'friend' doesn't erase anything else. People say 'I married my best friend' all the time. Beautiful human cliche." Crowley looked back to the Doctor. "Sorry, the  _ light of my life _ and I need to make sure you aren't a threat."

Aziraphale smiled. 

"I'm not human," the Doctor confirmed. "I'm an extraterrestrial. Timelord. What on earth are  _ you _ ?"  
  
"Timelord," Aziraphale repeated, enchanted by the way it rolled off the tongue, while Crowley simultaneously wrinkled his nose at the pretension. But he couldn't hide his excitement for long. Aziraphale knew Crowley had always wanted to meet an alien. 

"Extraterrestrial!" Crowley exclaimed, leaning forward. "What planet?"  
  
"Gallifrey. Long gone. Just me left now."  
  
"That near Alpha Centauri?"  
  
"Much further. Nice place, though, Alpha Centauri. Some nice beaches up that way."  
  
"We thought about moving there," Aziraphale said. "When we thought Earth might...be destroyed."

"We!" Crowley repeated, incredulous. " _ We _ thought about moving there, Angel?"   
  
"I considered it." 

"What do you do?" Crowley said. "Who do you work for?" Crowley figured that most aliens had alliances and agendas, and, like in the movies, were out to blow each other up.   
  
"I travel," said the Doctor. "Freelance. Occasionally stop things from going terribly wrong. Sometimes where I land in time and space is completely random, and I just look for anything unusual. Like a pastry turning into a robot, that was unusual."

The Doctor leaned forward in his chair. "Now you tell me who you are. I'm nine hundred years old, I've traveled very far and very wide, and I've never seen anything like the two of you."

Something glinted at the Doctor's waist. Aziraphale thought he saw something snip at the ties holding the Doctor's hands.   
  
Crowley laughed. "You hear that, Aziraphale! He's nine hundred years old!" Crowley stopped, sensing something pushing at the front of his mind. "Are you trying to get into my head?" Crowley asked. "Don't do that. You won't like it." 

"Just a moment," the Doctor said, having sprung up quickly, now-free hand to Crowley's temple. Aziraphale, seeing that something was being done to Crowley, sprang forward and wrenched them apart.   
  
"You were right," the Doctor said quietly. "I didn't like it. I was trying to get a reading, see how you could exist without exploding, and all I saw was all sorts of things I can't understand."    
  
Aziraphale found that he was still restraining the Doctor from behind, his hands on top of two pounding hearts. "You're --"   
  
"An alien, yeah. Double circulatory system. Good to have a backup." He looked back at Aziraphale. "You're very strong."    
  
Aziraphale felt flattered. He dropped his hands, and noted the Doctor's haunted expression. "Do me," Aziraphale said.   
  
Crowley raised both eyebrows.    
  
Aziraphale sighed. "I mean, get in my head. As an antidote. You'll feel better."

The Doctor placed a hand to Aziraphale's temple, closed his eyes, and smiled in joyful relief.   
  
Aziraphale, understanding that this was a two-way connection, stepped through the other side. He dodged the complex emotions and went for the math, the equations holding the Doctor's universe together. Aziraphale, who had read books about time travel, saw a lot of things that he thought ought not to exist, but clearly existed anyway.

"That was lovely," the Doctor said. "And completely out of line with my concept of the universe."   
  
"Likewise," said Aziraphale, kindly. He extended a hand in greeting. "Aziraphale. Principality Emeritus."    
  
"Emeritus?" Crowley scoffed.   
  
"It means I'm retired," Aziraphale said primly. "My rude friend is the former demon Crowley, also retired."   
  
The Doctor nodded in acknowledgement. "Oh, and congratulations to you two, by the way." 

Aziraphale beamed. Crowley looked almost shy.  
  
The robot, no longer a scone, skittered up the Doctor's shoulder.    
  
Aziraphale recognized the glint of metal, and realized the robot had snipped the Doctor's restraints. "How --?"   
  
"Oh! He was in my pocket. These pockets are bigger on the inside," the Doctor said. "I still don't know who he is, but he seems friendly." He coaxed the shape into his palm, and put it back in his pocket. "And you're a literal angel?"   
  
Aziraphale smiled. "Yes. From biblical creation. Although the bible does get it wrong at quite a few points..."   
  
And he explained, as best he could, with Crowley jumping in to clarify or argue, what they'd been up to the last few millennia. When they brought up the apocalypse, the Doctor asked if they meant machines or aliens were out to destroy the world, because he'd seen that a fair few times. Aziraphale and Crowley explained that sure, there had been spaceships, but it had really been about the horsepersons of the apocalypse on their motorbikes, the armies of heaven assembling, things like that.

The Doctor looked dizzy.

Aziraphale felt bad about how they'd treated him initially, and for how he boggled now. Also, the sun was going down. Aziraphale fetched a bottle from the back room. "Fancy a drink?"   
  
"Absolutely," said the Doctor. 

  
  
  
  
  


"Think I met Satan once," said the Doctor, several glasses in. "Great red beast, big horns?"   
  
"Yeah, sounds like him." Crowley squinted. "Why'd you meet Satan?"   
  
"Not on purpose," the Doctor mumbled, through the wine. "He was trapped, deep in an impossible planet, orbiting a black hole."   
  
Crowley scrunched up his face. "Orbiting a black hole? But that's --"   
  
"Impossible! I know!" the Doctor crowed. "Complete defiance of the laws of physics!"   
  
Crowley asked the dark, expansive question he was always asking. " _ Why _ ?"

"It was a prison. Brilliant setup. If the beast escaped the pit, he'd fall into the black hole. But then humans started digging on it, purely for the sake of exploration --"   
  
"Humans!" Aziraphale exclaimed, delighted. "Running round doing things for no reason at all!"

"Aren't they just!" the Doctor said, equally delighted. 

"When was this?" Crowley said. "When in time were you, when Satan was on the prison planet? Because it definitely hasn't happened yet."   
  
"Oh, thousands of years in your future," the Doctor said. "But supposedly it happened before time began, which, well. Doesn't line up with my theology." 

"How old is the earth in your theology?" said Aziraphale, who was enough of a bastard to occasionally enjoy a lively debate.   
  
"Not now, Aziraphale!" said Crowley. "The writing in the pit, do you remember what it looked like?"   
  
"Course I remember. I'm brilliant. I've got a photographic memory. Couldn't read it, though, and the TARDIS should be able to translate everything. But the writing was too old. Impossibly old." 

"Show me," Crowley said. 

The Doctor took a fountain pen and paper from Aziraphale's desk, and began to scratch out the symbols. Aziraphale, eyes widening, lept up and slapped the paper out of the Doctor's hand.   
  
"No creating demonic script in the bookshop!" Aziraphale cried. "That's a fire hazard!"   
  
Crowley took Aziraphale gently by the shoulder. "Listen, love, no no no, it isn't, just listen. It hasn't got any power if you don't believe in it. And obviously, you bested Hell, you don't believe they've got any power. I'm not a proper demon any more, I don't count, and just to be safe I'm not going to say any of it aloud without translating it first. And he doesn't have the slightest clue what it says, so even if it is some summoning spell or something, he can't set it off since he can't wrap his head around it."    
  
"Can't say I like being the one who can't wrap my head around something," the Doctor murmured. 

"And -- here," Crowley said, in a voice still deliberately trying to put Aziraphale at ease lest he blow anything up by believing in it too hard, "he'll write it on your dot matrix printer paper with a pencil. The least cursed, most human inventions in this entire place." He handed the pencil and papers to the Doctor. "If you would. Thanks."

Aziraphale softened, then un-softened as Crowley let out a low laugh upon seeing the pages. 

"Sure, the script is old, but the message isn't," Crowley said, grinning. 

  
_ HERE LIES FUCKFACE, RULER NO MORE _ _  
_ _ REBELLION RULES, SATAN DROOLS _ _  
_ _ PRINCE OF DARKNESS EAT MY ARSE _

"It's demon graffiti!" Crowley exclaimed. "The miserable legions of Hell rose up against their despotic ruler! How'd you think they did it? Bunch of demons in a spaceship? How'd demons get a spaceship? Maybe I did it, hundreds of years from now. I'm clever." 

"Oh," the Doctor said, with palpable regret. "Did I just give you specific knowledge of your own future? Didn't mean to do that." 

"And you said," Crowley continued, "when he appeared again, glowing red eyes and writing on the skin, means he's getting flung out into space with a 'kick me' sign on his face. That's incredible."    
  
"Don't know," the Doctor said. "Your version seems worse."   
  
It was Aziraphale's turn to boggle. "But if we supposed that the big fight we'd have one day -- all of us, you and I and humanity, against all of them, heaven and hell, what does that mean politically?"   
  
"It means at least some of  _ them _ defected," Crowley said. "Throws a bit more chaos into the mix, but I can't see that as a bad thing."   
  
Aziraphale, who was not a fan of throwing more chaos into the mix, turned back to the Doctor. "Who else have you met in your travels?"

  
  
  


A few more bottles of wine in, Crowley and the Doctor discovered they had somewhat more in common.

"Chaucer was a tosser!" Crowley hissed.    
  
"I'll give you that," the Doctor said. "But Shakespeare was a delight."   
  
"Gotta give it to old Will," Aziraphale said, smiling.   
  
Crowley gave Aziraphale a lopsided look. "You did, didn't you?"   
  
Aziraphale shrugged, faux-innocently, in a way that meant he absolutely had.

"You know who was good company?" Crowley gestured with a wobbly hand. "Da Vinci."   
  
" _ Love _ Da Vinci," the Doctor agreed. He then wandered into some unrelated anecdote about inventing the banana daiquiri centuries early.   
  
"Wait. WAIT," Crowley's head spun from a sudden realization, and the wine. "That business with Madame de Pompadour was you?"   
  
"Yeah. Afraid so."   
  
"First time I ever met her, she chews me out, says she hasn't seen me in ages, and tells me she hates my wig," Crowley said. "I wasn't wearing a wig!"

"Sorry about that," the Doctor said. "But only a little. More sorry for her. She was frighteningly brilliant. First human I ever met who realized that a psychic link could go both ways."    
  
"I like that," Aziraphale said, boldly. "When the psychic link goes both ways."   
  
And then -- Crowley couldn't believe it -- Aziraphale pouted at him, in that won't-you-fix-the-stain-on-my-jacket way, except it was  _ won't you let me love him, he's clearly going to run away in the morning _ . 

Crowley's thought was  _ are you serious? _ but of course he was serious. Lovely, ridiculous Aziraphale. 

"Sure," Crowley said, out loud. "Why the hell not." 

  
  
  


Crowley woke up surrounded by discarded clothing and a few stray feathers. He hadn't bothered to sober up before falling asleep, and he was groggy. Aziraphale, asleep in his armchair under a blanket, still managed to look smug.

"Now," the Doctor said, putting on layers of clothing and surveying the room, "where is my screwdriver?"   
  
"What's a screwdriver?" said Crowley.   
  
"Oh! I know," said Aziraphale, who apparently hadn't actually been asleep. "It's a drink. Not a very complex palate, I'm afraid."    
  
"The...laser pen," the Doctor explained. "You threw it across the room? Ah, there you are." 

Someone was knocking on the door, much too loudly for Crowley's taste.   
  
"Aziraphale!" Anathema's voice shouted from outside. "I know you're in there. I've been detecting strange things, and I think you should see them." 

The Doctor, who had somehow gotten dressed already, strode toward the door. Crowley miracled his and Aziraphale's clothes on with a snap, inelegantly sobered up, and wobbled after him.

  
"Hi! I'm the Doctor," the Doctor said, by way of greeting.    
  
"Anathema Device," said Anathema. "You have a strange aura."    
  
"Anathema! Great name, Anathema. What do you mean, aura?"   
  
"Most people have a color that can tell me about how they're feeling, and sometimes more than that. Yours has layers and particles. Yours is strange."   
  
"Now  _ that _ I'm sure I have a scientific explanation for. Just have to figure out what you're perceiving."    
  
"I'm perceiving a lot of things," Anathema said. She pointed down the block. "That police box has the same pattern you do." 

"Yeah," the Doctor said fondly. "That's mine." 

Crowley propped himself up near the doorway. "Anathema! What brings you to London?"   
  
"I live here now," Anathema said.    
  
"So you and what's-his-face --"   
  
"Broke up three months ago," Anathema continued. "Aziraphale and I play scrabble every Tuesday. Where have you been?"   
  
"Asleep, mostly," Crowley admitted.    
  
"I wonder about you," the Doctor said, in Crowley's direction. "You've got the power to bend reality, and you spend it sleeping --"   
  
"And drinking, and...the third thing," Crowley said. "Like I said, I'm retired."    
  
Anathema told the Doctor that she'd seen other patterns, like brightly colored tiny footprints, all over town.    
  
"Aha!" said the Doctor, who ran into the police box, and ran back out with a hand-held scanner. He waved it around, looking at where Anathema was pointing. "You're perceiving energy signatures! But without any kind of energy-signature-perceiving device."   
  
"I'm a Device," Anathema said brightly. She looked back to Crowley. "Why does he have your face?"   
  
"No idea," Crowley said. "And it doesn't matter. He's a scientific impossibility."   
  
"No," the Doctor corrected. " _ You're _ a scientific impossibility. We established that."    
  
"Like I said," Crowley said. "Doesn't matter." 

"Anathema," the Doctor said, "I think I know what those energy footprints are, and I could use a highly perceptive person to help me figure it out. What say you?"

  
  
  


Anathema took to the TARDIS like few humans did. She studied the control panel and the different attachments.   
  
"That part's still essentially a wheel," Anathema said. "So that's a handbrake." 

They had run all over town, including back to the cafe where Aziraphale's scone had run off, and then around and through the bookshop, and concluded that there had only been one robot all along, and that it had stowed away in the TARDIS.   
  
"It's got a little chameleon circuit," the Doctor said. "It was never a scone at all, it just learned to disguise itself really well. So when it's here --" the Doctor put the robot on the wall of the console room, and it shifted shape and color until it was invisible. "Total camouflage."   
  
"It's moving," Anathema said. "Can you see it?"   
  
"No, what do you see?"   
  
The Doctor put on what looked like a pair of laboratory goggles, and Anathema pointed it out again. "Oh!" the Doctor said. "It's eating the energy overflow."   
  
"Like one of those shrimp that eats the gunk on the side of the fishtank."   
  
"Yes, exactly!"

"So if the TARDIS tends to take you where trouble is," Anathema said, "and this wasn't the trouble, why do you think you came here?"   
  
"Hard to say," said the Doctor, who was looking at her like she was someone very special. Anathema wasn't sure how she felt about that yet. 

Anathema stepped back out the TARDIS door, on a hunch. 

  
  
  
  


"Aziraphale!" she called. It looked like Aziraphale and Crowley were just stepping out to lunch.    
  
"Hello, dear girl," Aziraphale said, and she threw her arms around his neck.    
  
"We solved the mystery!" Anathema exclaimed. "Well, not that much of a mystery. But we solved it. Wait, Crowley, why is your car glowing?"   
  
The Bentley was parked next to the TARDIS, which was not where Crowley had thought he left it.   
  
"She's laughing," Anathema said. "The TARDIS. I can hear her laughing." 

"Really!" the Doctor said. He looked toward the TARDIS doors. "You old flirt."   
  
Crowley squinted. "So your computer box --"   
  
"Also a vehicle, but yeah."    
  
"With my car?"   
  
"Apparently!" the Doctor laughed. "Beautiful car, by the way."   
  
"Oh, I know."    


"So! Anathema!" the Doctor said, breaking an awkward silence. "Anathema, do you want to go to space?"

"From everything he's told me, it sounds  _ incredibly _ dangerous," Anathema told them. "But who knows! Maybe I'll save the world again." 

Aziraphale wished her well, warmly. Crowley told her to write a letter, or something.

"I'll call you," Anathema said. "From space. Because apparently that's a thing that can happen." 

The Doctor hugged them both and kissed the angel on the forehead.

Crowley put up a hand, to avoid the Doctor's lips. "Still feels like tempting fate, really," he said. "But it was nice knowing you." 

They waved goodbye, again, and watched Anathema and the Doctor disappear behind the blue doors.

"Didn't ask me if I wanted to go to space," Crowley grumbled.

"You don't want to go to space anyway," Aziraphale said. "I hear it's cold."   
  
Crowley made a noncommittal noise.    
  
"Besides," Aziraphale continued. "Did you see all that running they were doing? You and I couldn't possibly keep up."    
  
"Good point," Crowley said. "Too much work."    
  
The TARDIS disappeared with a sound that Crowley recognized from his memorably disrupted nap. 

"The carfuck violin!" Crowley cried. "I  _ knew _ it!"

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So apparently 'Emeritus' isn't just for professors, it can also describe retired members of the clergy. I think Aziraphale finds this very appropriate. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Thanks to blithers & glorious_clio for beta-ing.


End file.
